


Concession

by Elisexyz



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Little Spoon Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25317832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Geralt not-so-secretly loves being the little spoon. Cuddling Without Plot.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 153
Kudos: 560
Collections: Best Geralt





	Concession

**Author's Note:**

> Because I was discussing little spoon Geralt with my very dear ~~enabler~~ friend and I got feelings. Geralt deserves hugs and cuddles, so I’m contributing. Enjoy my self-indulgence LOL.

“Geralt?”

Geralt supresses a sigh, seriously taking under advisement the idea of pretending to be asleep, because it’s been a long day and he needs some rest, if Jaskier wants to _talk_ —

Jaskier huffs, poking at the arm wrapped around him because he knows that it annoys the fuck out of him. “I _know_ you are awake, you arse.”

Okay then.

“What?” he asks, gruffly, expressing every last bit of his annoyance. If Jaskier is mulling over some lyrics and he wants to brainstorm, he’s going to strangle him. It’s a small distance to walk from a hug to a chokehold.

“I was thinking—how about we switch it up a little today?” Jaskier says, running his finger up and down Geralt’s arm. It’s vaguely distracting and it doesn’t help him in his quest to understand what exactly he could mean by that. Switch _what_ up? They are just trying to sleep!

(Or, at least, _one_ of them is.)

“What are you talking about?”

“We should switch roles for once!”

“…Roles?”

“Yes!”

There’s too much enthusiasm in his voice for such a late hour.

Jaskier starts squirming in his arms, eventually managing to turn around so that they are facing each other. That big grin on his face does not reassure Geralt one bit.

“You are always the big spoon, which is lovely, I’m not complaining, you’re really good at it and I feel very safe and coddled, _but_ I was thinking that it’d be nice if you got to be the little spoon too sometimes!”

What the fuck.

Geralt blinks at him, his brain drawing a blank, except for that little corner of his mind that is extremely grateful that Jaskier probably can’t see whatever dumbstruck expression has appeared on his face.

“I’m not little,” he eventually manages to get out, grumpy enough not to be suspicious. Hopefully.

“Oh come on now, you are not _that_ much bigger than me!” Jaskier readily protests, his smile not faltering. “It can work!”

“Hmm.”

Where is this even coming from? The position that they are currently in is the one that they naturally gravitated towards, because it makes _sense_ , because Jaskier may not be a particularly frail man but he’s still a _man_ , and Geralt quite likes shielding him as best as he can, not least of all because holding him is a good way to make sure that he is not running around getting himself in trouble.

The reverse just sounds so—odd. There is no need for it, and it’s not how their relationship is supposed to _work_ —

“Come on, if you hate it we don’t _ever_ have to do it again, I promise. Please?” Jaskier pauses for a moment and only to pout, all too aware that Geralt can see him. “A change of perspective every now and then is good for the mind and the soul, not to mention—”

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Geralt cuts him off, because his head is starting to protest at the flood of words and he _really_ wants to sleep. If this is what it takes to have some silence, so be it. He has done way more ridiculous things for Jaskier. “What do you want me to do?”

Jaskier beams at him, planting a kiss on his chin as a celebration, then he instructs him to turn around and slide a little farther down the pillow. Geralt mutters that the whole thing is ridiculous, but he complies, and he quickly finds himself with Jaskier wrapped around him, one leg sliding above his and one arm wrapped tightly around his chest.

Jaskier gets better settled, with his free arm under the pillow and his face in his hair. He lays a kiss on Geralt’s head, making something flutter in his chest and his throat close up. He can feel Jaskier’s heartbeat against his back, he can almost hear him whisper _hey, I’ve got you_ , and it shouldn’t be half as reassuring as it is.

A Witcher who grows complacent gets dead fast, but a Witcher who makes it an habit of relying on others gets dead even faster.

This is stupid.

Yet.

“So,” Jaskier says, softly, nuzzling against his hair. “Is this okay?”

 _No, get the fuck off me, I hate it_.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, his breath itching as he thinks that this cannot be comfortable for Jaskier. Isn’t he too big for this to work? Is Jaskier going to get any sleep? And what if he starts moving around, maybe headbutts him in the nose—

“You know,” Jaskier muses, tracing Geralt’s collarbone with his finger. “This is actually pretty practical.”

Geralt blinks, more confused than ever. “ _How_?”

Jaskier shrugs. “This way you can stay between me and the door like you’re so fixated on doing _and_ you don’t have to turn your back on it. Practical.”

That—actually kind of makes sense. It doesn’t much matter if he has his back on the door or not, if someone comes in he will hear them regardless and they’ll be dead before they’ve taken two strides past the entrance, but it does bother him a little as he’s trying to fall asleep.

Maybe that’s why this feels so oddly acceptable, he thinks, glancing at the closed door and feeling some tension melting from his shoulders.

“Hmm, maybe you’re right,” he mutters, without thinking of the grave mistake he’s making.

“I always am, darling,” Jaskier immediately says, all too smugly.

About a million of instances contradicting the sentiment pop up in Geralt’s head in the span of ten seconds, but he’s _tired_ and the reason why he agreed to this in the first place was to get some sleep, so he forgoes arguing for once. “Shut up and sleep,” he says instead, roughly, his hand reaching for Jaskier’s before he has even thought it through.

The arm around him tightens slightly, which does _not_ justify at all the way his breath gets cut off, and it feels oddly safe, like when he’s back in Kaer Morhen and for once he doesn’t have to watch his back at every turn.

(It’s fine, it’s just practical, it’s nice to see the door.)

He falls asleep surprisingly easily, focusing on the feeling of a steady thump against his back and of hot breath blowing against his ear.

It keeps happening.

They are camping, and it’s cold, Geralt is shivering all over and Jaskier is a fucking _furnace_ , so it’s to be expected that Jaskier would pull him to his chest, holding him tight and muttering curses at the chilly wind. Geralt is way too tired to argue.

They are at an inn, and it’s practical. There was a guy eyeing them strangely down at the tavern, and Geralt wouldn’t be able to sleep if he weren’t watching the door.

They are camping, and Geralt’s sore all over, his arm a barely functional mess, so it makes sense for Jaskier to play the pillow this time around. They could simply sleep separately, but Jaskier always gets twitchy after an hunt doesn’t go as smoothly as it could have, so it’s probably best to keep him close. And if it’s a little too comfortable for Geralt’s taste, well, maybe he’s just delirious from blood loss. 

They are camping, and there is no excuse for it.

“What has you so fixated on this now?” Geralt grunts, even as he lets Jaskier slide his arm around him and get settled against his back.

“Maybe I just like to do the protecting every now and then,” Jaskier says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Is it that absurd?”

“Yes.”

“I can live with that.”

Maybe, so can Geralt. There is so much about Jaskier that makes no sense, at least this is—relatively harmless. Hopefully. If Geralt can keep his head on his shoulders and not get strange ideas about his place in the world.

They are camping, not far enough from town.

Jaskier is still scowling by the time they’ve made camp, after having spent the whole way throwing himself into passionate monologues about the townsfolk they just left behind, pointing an accusing finger at Geralt while _ordering_ him not to listen to the filth coming out of their mouths _and_ trying to compose terrible songs about the experience, probably just so that he can insult them some more, every now and then asking things like ‘Geralt, what rhymes with _cowardly and ungrateful pricks_?’.

When it’s finally time to head to bed, Jaskier still looks restless and ready to walk all the way back to town to throw hands, so when he tugs at Geralt’s shirt and invites him to get settled against his chest Geralt figures that maybe it’s for the best, that it might help him settle down and there’s no way he’s slipping out from under him without waking him up.

“They are idiots,” Jaskier says against his hair, all too solemnly.

Geralt readily rolls his eyes. “So you’ve said.”

“And so I’ll keep saying until you get it through that thick skull of yours that I’m _right_.”

Geralt doesn’t answer, but he can’t help the smile lingering on his lips: Jaskier’s insistence on being so fiercely protective of him is ridiculous and more than a little troublesome on occasion, but when it’s just the two of them—it’s kinda nice. There’s no one to get in a fight with, just Geralt listening to his rants and feeling a little more content than he’s supposed to be.

He takes a breath, shifting a little and mindlessly rubbing his cheek against Jaskier’s chest as he gets settled.

Thankfully, Jaskier doesn’t comment on it.

They are at an inn, and Geralt wants to crawl right out of his skin.

The room is full of dust that keeps prickling at his nose, the air smells stale, the walls creak against the wind. Jaskier is there with him, lying on the bed with one of his journals under his chin, as he looks up to the ceiling, probably searching for inspiration, judging by the thoughtful frown on his face.

There’s another bard downstairs, and his nasal voice deeply grates against Geralt’s nerves, enough that he vows to compliment Jaskier’s singing the first chance he gets, because _for fuck’s sake_. There’s a thunderstorm nearby, far enough that it doesn’t feel like a series of explosions going off right next to his ear, but close enough for each bolt to make him shudder, his throbbing headache only worsening.

He flexes his fingers, vaguely nauseated and taking a breath that does nothing to make him want to crawl out of his skin any less. He takes a few steps, the floor wails under his feet, and he _swears_ that he’s about to start crying out of frustration.

Downstairs, the bard keeps screaming cheerful ballads, people stomp their feet to accompany him, laughing and cheering all at once, and Geralt just really wants to burn them all to the ground.

Instead, he strides towards the bed, diving for Jaskier because he’s _there_ and he _wants_ it.

Jaskier lets out a surprised noise, probably because he was too lost in his own head to even notice him until he was crashing against him, but he’s quick to set aside his journal and wrap his arms around him.

Geralt buries his face in the crook of his neck, thanking all the gods he knows how to name for Jaskier’s stupid fixation on oils – he confessed to spending the first few months of their friendship looking for one that didn’t make Geralt’s nose twitch in annoyance, which is—ridiculous, and entirely like Jaskier.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, quietly, after a few long moments of silence.

Geralt tenses, somehow half-expecting to be pushed away and reminded that he shouldn’t have spoken out of turn – Jaskier has been very amenable to _this_ , but he’s always offered, Geralt has never just _taken_ –, but there are fingers running soothingly through his hair and an arm tight around him, hardly looking to let go.

“It smells like shit in here,” he mutters, his fingers curling around Jaskier’s shirt. “And it’s noisy.”

Jaskier snorts. “Yeah, actually, it doesn’t smell particularly fresh—I could open a window?”

He doesn’t move a muscle, and Geralt holds tighter onto him.

“No.”

It’s better, like this. He doesn’t want to move.

“Okay,” Jaskier is quick to say, sounding actually pretty delighted. “Don’t worry, dear heart, I’ve got you.”

Geralt swallows heavily, feeling ridiculously small and yet not finding a single wary bone in his body. It’s fine, it’s just Jaskier.

Jaskier who presses a kiss against his hair and starts humming some tune or another, quiet and non-invasive enough that it doesn’t much grate against his nerves and helps him tune out everything else.

He can trust him at his back, he can trust him to hold him through the night and to shield him from a shitty inn. It might not be a Witcher’s rightful place in the world, but maybe it can be Geralt’s, for a little while.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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